HUNTED: A Killjoy Fiction
by ErinsPapers
Summary: Inspired by Danger Days by MCR. It's 2025. The rock band the Fabulous Killjoys are a staple of killjoy culture-but now they're wanted, no one's heard from them in a year, & Dr. D reports that Fun Ghoul is dead. Can we survive without them? Alt Univ/OCs
1. Part I: Chapter 1

(It's 2025. The rock band the Fabulous Killjoys are a staple of killjoy culture, a beacon of what it means to be on the run in the desert: Live free, not easy. But no one has seen them or heard from them in more than a year, and reports are coming through Dr. D that Fun Ghoul died in battle. Where are the Fabulous Killjoys? And without that rallying point, how will the world's killjoys continue to survive in the face of the ever-evolving threat that is BL/ind? Alternate Universe/OC/OOC

I don't own this shit.

Please review! This is going to be a long one guys. I'd love input as I go. P.S. No slash … except this one time, but no one from the band. But plenty of MCR song refs/lyrics … It's fun guys c'mon!

Also let me explain: This fiction is sort of inspired by the killjoys, but it ignores a lot of what's out there in the killjoy "canon" I.e. twitter feeds, some stuff from videos. A lot of stuff is true to canon though. I did my own thing. It's all in fun.)

**Part I: Jenny Won't Ya Come Back Home **

April 15, 2025-Somewhere in northern Nevada

"Hey there, tumbleweeds-bad news. My caravan just came across a band of fallen killjoys on Route Hyacinth. A moment for our six anonymous bullet-riddled comrades in broke-ass arms."

Dr. Death Defying wasn't the _New York Times _or even _The Love Note, _the anonymous pamphlet of underground news killjoys far and wide passed around and kept an eye out for at all times. But his station was accessible, if you knew how to get to it, throughout California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and New Mexico, and he tried to pass on any bit of news he heard or saw.

"Alright now children," he said in his smooth voice. "This one's for them."

Hundreds of killjoys died weekly-Jackson knew this because he listened to Dr. Death, read _The Love Note, _inquired of every killjoy he encountered and kept count as he roamed the desert. The Draculoids killed them. They were getting either more numerous or more vicious in recent months, too, because Jackson had the distinct feeling that the body count was higher each week than the last. Or maybe the rumors that they'd begun to use helicopters and small fighter jets in this perennial desert war were true.

"Jackson!"

He looked up. Roland was barreling toward him through the desert, tripping as he went, off-balance because of a ragged bundle clutched to his chest, inside his scuffed white leather jacket.

Jackson shot to his feet, almost dumping the crumpled _The Love Note _he had been rereading and the pan he had been drinking whiskey from into the embers of the fire. "What?" he asked, alarmed.

He realized the bundle Roland clutched was a small, olive-skinned child.

"Get in the car!" Roland said.

"We have to pack-"

"Get in the car! Now!"

Grabbing _The Love Note, _a blanket, the pan, and his satchel-where they kept the whiskey, a few cans of beans, and the Angel, the apocalyptic western United States' BL/ind-manufactured and universally ingested drug-Jackson fell into the passenger seat of the bright blue, heavily modified 1973 Grand Am just as Roland dumped the kid-maybe 8-years-old, undetermined gender-into the shiny black leather backseat.

"Those pigs are after me," Roland said, falling in beside Jackson.

Draculoids. As the Grand Am's engine rumbled to life, Jackson saw three white-faced, huge-eyed masks, then three bodies, and then three dusty chrome motorcycles crest the hill Roland had just come over, kicking up red sand and dirt into a cloud behind them, obscuring the setting sun.

"There's only three of them!" Jackson said. "Why are we running?"

"More are coming."

The blue Grand Am pulled out from the abandoned campsite onto the old Interstate 80, known in killjoy code as Route Hyacinth. The mounted Draculoids, jackets billowing behind them, rode straight through the campsite, then swung onto the route behind the Grand Am, trailing by about a quarter-mile.

"Fuck!" Roland spouted, craning his neck to look back at the ruined campsite as it receded from view.

"Where'd you get a kid?" Jackson asked.

"Jackson-fucking shoot!"

"Oh. Right."

Drawing his laser, which he had lovingly modified years before with a secret technique so it hit just as powerfully as a real bullet and which shared his killjoy name-Flash Cannon-Jackson stood up and turned in his seat.

There were now seven mounted figures kicking up the red desert dust collected on the old interstate behind them.

"Boom!" Jackson said, triggering the Cannon. A red beam struck the metal of one of the bikes, bounced, and hit the dusty road. "Dam it!"

He ducked back behind the seat just as bullets began to whiz above him. The Cannon's conversation chamber came loose half the time when Jackson squeezed the trigger too fast-he shoved it back into place with a practiced motion.

Bullets rung in high and low pitches as they buried themselves in the fender and bed or the trunk.

"Lay down on the seat, Jenny!" Roland said, sinking lower in his own seat as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

"Jenny? You know her name?"

"God damn it Jackson, shoot!"

"Oh. Right!"

Jackson's hand was already on the door handle. He pushed it open, leaning out-and pulled the trigger.

"Boom!" He ducked back inside and slammed the door with a flourish.

One of the Draculoids took the beam square in the chest, knocking him backward off his bike. The motorcycle sipped sideways as its rider tumbled backward, and a second mounted Draculoid was swept to the ground as she collided with the fallen bike.

"I'm the shit," Jackson said matter-of-factly as he popped the conversation chamber back into place again.

"Dude, don't cuss in front of Jenny."

"Fuck, you're right."

Jackson stood up again to face the five remaining Draculoids, ducking out to the right of the protective seat. "Boom! Boom, boom!" He ducked to the other side, the Grand Am pinging as Draculoid bullets struck it, and fired twice more.

Two more Draculoids fell for his trouble. But now the three final figures were within twenty feat of the Grand Am's shiny, bullet-riddled fender.

Roland and Jackson were fresh out of explosives. The Draculoids probably were not, and both men knew it.

"They're fast," Jackson said.

"I'm already topped out." The speedometer was straining at 120 mph.

"We're gonna have to use our bulk," Jackson replied.

"Man, motherfucker."

A bullet went through Jackson's headrest, whizzing centimeters above his curled, sandy hair, and broke through the windshield.

"Just fucking do it, Roland!"

"Fine!" Roland reached up and put his seat belt on. "Jenny, strap in! Jackson, stop freaking cursing."

Gradually, imperceptibly, he slowed to 110 mph. The Draculoids gained.

"Little boys!" One of their voices could be heard calling. "We just want the little girl!"

The Grand Am slowed so suddenly and dramatically that it was as if it had hit an invisible wall-causing all three remaining Draculoids to slam into the back of the Grand Am.

Roland winced as he heard the chrome bikes scrape against his classic car's fender and shiny blue backside.

"Ow, motherfuckingshit!" Jackson said. The car was not moving along at about 25 mph, leaving the three Draculoids in a smoking head on the road. Jackson was rubbing the back of his neck. "You gave me whiplash."

"It's gonna take more than a day to fix that," Roland said. "I could hear it. They bent the fender to hell."

A small voice piped up from the back seat.

"Why did you want to hurt them?" it asked. "They were so nice." Jenny sounded like she was on the verge of tears.


	2. Part I: Chapter 2

A few weeks earlier: March 27, 2025-Hunger City, California

The Second Life Church of Christ in Hunger City, the metropolis no longer encased in a Better Living Industries bubble atop the ruins of Huntington Beach, California-which has been bombed, not nuked, in the apocalypse of 2010-was above a smelly cold-cuts shop near Avenue X and 151st Street, a tiny walk-up apartment with stained-glass stickers on the dirty windows and a cross made from two mismatched old table-legs above an alter made from a child's desk. Metal folding chairs collected dust on their rusty hinges, standing in loose rows.

Harriet sat by a window in the cramped room, watching her cigarette smoke drift up into a shaft of light. It was hot in the little church. She was sweating inside her black nun's habit.

Harriet was on duty guarding the door tonight. She'd almost been inside the bar keeping order, but Aladdin had switched her shift at the last moment, which she liked. Guard duty was quieter. All she had to do was smoke. She blew an expert smoke ring and hiked her habit to her waist to let her legs cool off.

There was a knock at the door.

"Who is it."

"It's the milkman."

Harriet stood up and crossed the room, reaching up instinctively to her left eye to make sure her eye-patch was fixed in place, and opened the door with a creek. "What do you want?"

The man on the other side was in his fifties, no one Harriet knew personally. "I'm hear for the funeral," he said.

Harriet looked incredulous. "I've never seen you at service before," she said.

"That's because I've been on the wagon," the man said.

Harriet nodded, making a saluting motion and stepping aside to let the man pass inside. She looked outside. It was a beautiful night. Maybe she'd smoke some Angel.

The man walked over to the cross, touched the wall, which opened-letting in a blast of rock music and a flash of green neon-and disappeared.

Second Life was a front for Hunger City's current premier underground rock club. They had Angel, whiskey, guitars, amps, drums, a keyboard with most of its keys, and sometimes even electricity-everything. No one nearby knew this, and it was Harriet was one of those charged with keeping it that way. And to keep the Draculoids from finding out. Second Life had survived for almost three months, an unusually long time. In Harriet's four years as a security specialist in Hunger City, she had never seen a club last so long.

"Harriet?"

She turned. Isabel was on the landing, her nun's habit askew only slightly. "Have we got the peanuts from Battery City?" the younger woman asked.

Harriet shrugged. "No," she said. "Nothing from Battery City in days. They must not be letting anyone out again."

"God, I'm sick of it," Isabel said, leaning on the metal landing's rail. Smoke from a grate on the street below drifted up behind her, and the tiniest breeze took a few light wisps of her curly red hair away from her face, drawing Harriet's eyes with them and out toward the narrow Avenue X. The area was known for churches, cheap delis, sad toy stores, loan clinics, and mercenary shops. The road was too broken for anything but walking, with garbage and unspecified liquids puddled in the gutters. A useless public buss stop had been dismantled by the citizenry for parts. Harriet had lived in Hunger City for five years, since just after Better Living Industries stopped trying to effectively governing its people and switched to a more overt police-state model. Tax them, outlaw everything, fine them, and blow up or shoot anyone who does not comply. This was probably the most common form of government in the world if you looked at all of time, Harriet had always thought. It was almost elegant in its simplicity.

"Sick of what?" she responded to Isabel.

Isabel pulled a stick of Angel from inside her billowing sleeves and lit it. "Life. I'm gonna go into the dessert. Become self-reliant. Eat lizards and sun bathe." She took a pull of the Angel and passed it to Harriet.

Harriet imagined Isabel and herself in the desert-maybe riding a motorcycle down a wide-open Route Hyacinth, Isabel's white arms around her as she drove.

"You'd die," she said, smiling.

"I would-"

"Put it out!"

"What?" Isabel looked down into the street, to where Harriet's eyes had flickered. The taller woman was now standing ramrod straight wither her hands clasped before her piously. Isabel followed suit, shaking out the stick and swallowing it deftly with only a slight wince. Harriet was almost proud of the girl for that.

Six Draculoids were marching in a loose V-formation down the narrow street. Men and women stopped along the sidewalks and metal walk-up landings, staring straight ahead, not daring to move.

The Second Life Church of Christ was surviving miraculously long. The last thing they needed was to have a couple of their nuns get busted for Angel.

Fortunately, the Draculoids didn't have their customary drug dogs. They must be busting something else, Harriet thought. Thank God. That would've made a predictable end to the club, and Harriet would've had to beat another lonely, disloyal retreat. Many went down with the ship when these clubs got busted. Never Harriet. Someone had to survive from these raids, she figured, or else no one would ever known how to set up next month's clubs.

Suddenly, one of the Draculoids took something from his belt and brought up below his mask, to his mouth. Then he tossed it upward onto the metal landing.

There was an odd quiet moment on the street as every frozen onlooker waited for the blast.

With a crash the grenade detonated-blowing the landing to shreds and a hole in the side of the brick building. Inside were huge vat-like barrels in what was clearly a very large room. It was a wine distillery, another disallowed operation, Harriet realized. After a moment, three tentative heads appeared out of the wreckage, saw the Draculoids, and immediately withdrew.

The Draculoid threw another grenade upward. Of the five others, four were laughing and pumping their fists.

Wine casks shattered, dousing the landing in thick black liquid. Pieces of meet, presumably from one or more of the unfortunate distillers, flew out of the ragged hole in the brick wall. Together the substances settled in a chunky ooze that began to drip down the wrecked metal stairs.

It was as if the people on Avenue X were suddenly unpaused. Perhaps three-dozen men and women all began to scatter, scurrying into doorways and alleyways, ducking behind trash cans.

At the same time, the Draculoids entered the distillery's building at street level. Harriet could see now that other people were moving in the dark among the casks of the exposed room.

Harriet turned to go back inside.

"Wait!" Isabel's voice was choked with emotion. "You're just going to let them kill those people in there? That's what they're going to do, you know."

Harriet turned. Isabel was young. She'd moved from utopian Battery City and all its comforts just a year before. "Yes, I'm going to let them die. I've let people whose names I knew die. Get inside the church."

Isabel's brown eyes were wide. "Is this what killjoys are really about?"

Harriet said nothing. She couldn't look at Isabel's huge, trembling, lash-lined eyes.

"Give me your gun," Isabel said.

"Give me a break."

An explosion shook the street, coming from the distillery.

"Give it to me, or go yourself," Isabel said, though her voice was less sure this time. Screams and gunshots could be heard coming from the building across the now-deserted Avenue X. Smoke curled up from the burnt and broken landing.

"Damn you," Harriet said. "Get inside."

Lighting a new Angel, Harriet bounded down the metal stairs to the street, and across the asphalt to the door that the Draculoids had entered. She wouldn't like another person who chose such a stupid, heroic course. She'd call them an attention-whore and an organ donor. She opened the door, upon which hung a little sign she now knew to be a not completely truthful: Ray's Pawn Shop, hours of operation Noon to Midnight. She puffed the Angel a few times, shook it out and put it back inside her habit.

Harriet's killjoy name was Harriet. When she'd lived in the desert, she had never seen the point in taking a code name. No one knew her, and that way she hadn't had to remember to respond to something else.

Inside, the pawnshop was deserted, the low shelves crowded with NES games, watches, lamps, and mirrors. The cash register was unattended and the buzz of florescent lights was for a moment the only sound. Harriet grabbed a few of the more expensive looking pieces of jewelry to sell later on.

Then there was another explosion upstairs, male yells, and six rapid gunshots. Harriet bit her lip and strode toward the back room, behind the counter.

As she had suspected, there was a secret door in the back wall, beside a bedraggled record player on a rolling desk without wheels, carelessly left open by the Draculoids.

From above came the brief sound of breaking glass, then a voice—"Fuck!"—and the thump of feet, once more. Harriet plunged through the door, and up the stairs.

She stopped just outside the cracked door at the top of the staircase. The room on the other side was dark, but Harriet could hear voices inside.

"We don't want to hurt you this time, McQueue," a weary voice was calling inside the room. Harriet surmised that the speaker and his men were searching among the casks for this man he addressed, McQueue. The room had seemed large enough to play hide and seek in. "If you tell us enough, we'll leave you alone." The sound of booted feet rang out.

Who, exactly, was Harriet there to protect, again? Why had she come?

Shit. This was a really fucking great idea.

"Fun Ghoul," the voice continued. "That's what you call yourself now, right? I get it. You know we're going to kill you. You're right. We are." The voice paused, and so did the feet. "But I'll put a nice bullet clean through your brain if you tell us where our other targets are. You know I'm a man of my word between friends. Otherwise, we're going to set this building on fire, and you'll die of suffocation while you watch your skin blister in a thousand places."

Harriet figured that it couldn't be that hard to put a laser beam through six unsuspecting heads.

Throwing open the door with her shoulder, she started pulling the trigger the moment the scene came into view: A vast room that must've taken up the second story of eight or nine street-level shops, full of barrels taller than a man and wider than a car, a thin film of dark wine making a creeping stain on old, light-brown carpet from the large hole in the opposite wall.

Four people and one Draculoid laid dead of gunshot wounds, laying in squelchy puddles of their own blood. Pieces of flesh clung to a few casks. A second hole, this one in the adjacent wall, revealed the apartment of an elderly couple that now lay dead just a few feet from their kitchen table, also from bullet wounds.

Among the casks Harriet immediately saw three of the Draculoids standing. She was a good shot and had the element of surprise. She dropped them all, rapid fire blasts to the backs of their skulls.

But even as Harriet's shots rang out, she saw a man emerge from inside a cask near the hole looking onto Avenue X—he pushed aside a wooden slat in the side of the barrel, bolted forward and immediately burst into flames.

He streaked across Harriet's vision as she dropped the third Draculoid, the flaming man emitting a screeching sound like a worn-out break pad, flames leaping from his obscured form.

Harriet glimpsed two more Draculoids amidst the wreckage, but was transfixed for a moment—as the man charged to the hole, turned, and lifted a laser to his head—he had been clutching it as he charged—and pulled the trigger.

Still aflame, he fell backward onto the avenue below.

The two Draculoids and Harriet regained their wits at the same instant.

They turned to her.

The instinct to duck back into the stairway was only barely stronger than the instant to scream curse words while her hard leapt into her mouth. She pulled the door shut behind her. Descending the stairs backward, she crouched and braced against one wall. She kept her laser trained on the door.

The two came through with their own guns blazing, but didn't immediately spot her on the dim stairs.

She put a beam into both of their torsos within seconds—not good shooting for Harriet—while one of them managed to put a bullet in her left shoulder.

Harriet fell backwards, tumbling down the stairs and landing at the bottom with a searing jolt of pain. The stolen jewelry and several sticks of Angel spilled from where she had tucked it up her sleeve, littering the stairs behind her as she fell.

She sat up immediately, compelled by the need to vomit all over her own legs. A moment later she regained enough self-awareness to glance up at the landing.

One of them lay as if dead. The other had dropped his gun and was staggering down the stairs toward it, clutching the hand-rail. His mask was askew, revealing a stubbled chin, crinkling the Draculoid features into a squat grimace. Harriet thought vaguely the mask's face looked like a Halloween pumpkin.

Harriet lifted her laser, which was lying beside her, and managed after five tries to put a beam through the Draculoid's head.

Then she passed out.


	3. Part I: Chapter 3

March 30, 2025—Hunger City, California

"What happened?"

Isabel's voice was gentle, but her eyes huge. In the three days since the raid, the younger woman had cared for Harriet as she lay on her cot in the rock club's basement. She had until that moment managed not to ask Harriet a single unnecessary question.

"Not sure," Harriet said. "But maybe if you find me another comic book someplace I'll remember. Meanwhile, I'll take a nap. Come back when you've found one."

Isabel frowned and Harriet grinned. She had hardly been able to believe her luck in having a sheepish, obedient Isabel as her caretaker the last few days. It had almost made the adventure among the casks worth it. Especially considering the fact that the bullet had, somehow, missed her nerves. She could still move her arm and fingers some, which meant she could potentially make a full recovery.

"Come on, please, Harriet. I'm going to definitely scream and possibly explode if you don't tell me right now."

Harriet's grin faltered. She bit her lip absently. "A bunch of Draculoids died, and I was very fortunate. Other people died. Wine was spilled. Lots of wine. The end. Now I'm going to go back to sleep, if you'll be so kind as to shut the door when you-"

"What about the flaming man?"

"I liked not talking about this. That part was awesome."

"You know, Aladdin sent a couple of the men over there after we got you, and we took a bunch of that wine."

"Thank God that man has some sense," Harriet replied. "Who knows how important that distillery was to the Hunger City supply. I bet we'll see wine getting more expensive really soon."

There was a knock at the door of Harriet's little basement room below the Second Life, and Aladdin—the sort of manager of the club—poked his head inside. He looked at Harriet. "There's a lady here who wants to see the women who killed five Draculoids. She says she's a fan."

Harriet raised her eyebrows. "What does she look like?"

"I don't know, she looks like some young girl."

"Ask her what she really wants."

"I told her to mind her own business. She said I'd let her in if I've ever been a killjoy."

"And you did. Are you twelve, and a member of a super secret club? Did she have knowledge of the secret handshake?" Aladdin frowned right up to his old puppy dog eyes, and his big mustache seemed to droop under Harriet's admonitions. She rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, I'm just saying I don't want to talk to some random person when I'm still trying to recover. And when what I really want is a nap."

Isabel spoke up. "I'll talk to her," she said. "I'll tell her what you told me."

"An excellent plan," Harriet agreed. "I'll nap." The pair left.

But Harriet did not even doze before the door opened again.

"She says she bets you heard the name Fun Ghoul." Isabel's cheeks were flushed; this strange female apparently intrigued her. Harriet frowned.

"Did you?" Isabel asked.

"Everyone has heard the name Fun Ghoul."

"She means when you were over there," Isabel replied breathlessly, nodding her head at the curtained window that looked out on Avenue X.

"Who is this freaking woman?" Harriet's voice was slightly louder than she'd expected.

"She won't say," Aladdin answered.

"I'll talk to her."

Isabel's face lit up. "Ok!" she said, ducking out into the hallway. Aladdin withdrew, and the younger woman returned a moment later.

The woman who came in behind her was maybe in her late twenties, with hair dyed dark red caught in a thick braid. She wore a The Smiths T-shirt, leather pants, and hand-made burlap lace-up boots, typical city attire for a visiting killjoy. She sat down, after a moment's hesitation, in Isabel's bedside chair, leaving Isabel standing behind her, eyes wide above her pretty, smiling bow mouth.

"I'm Ellen," the woman said. "Thank you for seeing me. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"I'm Harriet. It's fine."

Ellen reached behind her and pulled a small notebook and pen from her pocket. "I want to ask you some questions. I promise to be quick. Thanks again."

"What's this for?"

"Please. I will be quick." The woman's forehead wrinkled in pleading, but her mouth was set in a firm line.

The two looked at each other, but Harriet broke the stare. "Fine." She reached to the bedside table for an Angel and lit it.

Ellen looked relieved. "Thanks," she said. "Ok. Tell me. Do I have this right so far: You saw the six Draculoids go into the building across the street here on Avenue X, and followed them. You killed all of them inside the wine distillery run by Abby Robinson, killjoy name Mana Spark. You got shot in the left shoulder." She ran the words together as if trying to get through them as quickly as possible, her eyes positively crackling with interest as she read from her little notebook. "All right? Anything to add? Any details?"

Harriet nodded and shrugged. She'd heard Isabel and Aladdin talking about Abby as the likely mastermind behind the winery. She was one of those who'd been shot dead by the Draculoids, the former owner of a deli at street level on Avenue X. "I guess Abby ran it," she said.

"She did," Ellen replied. "Who did you think ran it?" He poised her pen.

"I didn't know," Harriet replied slowly.

"Ok." Ellen blinked at her, then opened her mouth again. "Why did you go over there when you saw the Draculoids, if you don't mind my asking? If you do … Um, anyway, did you know there was a distillery there or anything? Did you know some of the people over there …?"

"Who are you?" Harriet asked.

Ellen looked down, setting her pen on her notebook. "I understand you're concerned about volunteering information to someone you don't know, and that you wonder what I'll use it for, and whether I'm with BL/ind," she said eloquently, as if by wrote. "But I'm just curious." She looked up. "You were a killjoy, right? When did you come to Hunger." She paused. "Sorry. That was off-topic. I mean, why go over there?"

"She went over there to save the people in the distillery!" Isabel burst out from behind Ellen.

Harriet's Angel was half gone. She put it to her lips. "Yep," she said around the butt. "That's apparently what I did."

"Apparently?"

"Sure."

"What is apparently?"

"All you're getting." Harriet smiled.

Ellen glared. "Fine," she said. "What happened once you got inside the distillery?"

"I didn't know there was a distillery or whatever over there," Harriet said. "I mean until they blew a hole in the town and we could all see inside it."

"Of course not," Ellen said. There was, perhaps, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. "You're a nun. Why would you know that?"

"Right." Harriet shifted her legs beneath her blanket. "I'm not with Blind."

Harriet shrugged. "I don't know if you are or not. But I have nothing to hide."

The strange woman sighed. "Of course not, and if you did I wouldn't want to expose it. Please. What happened? What did you see? What did you hear? Who was there? What did it smell like?"

Harriet raised her eyebrows. "Got any more questions?"

"Harriet-can I call you Harriet? I'm sorry, if I can't. Anyway-I already know that five Dracs and a bunch of people died, and you got shot. Please just tell me how that happened. Please."

Harriet was almost beginning to believe the woman's claim that she was just curious on her own behalf. "What do you think happened?" she asked. "You seem to know more than I do."

Ellen sighed again, rocking back and forth on the chair. "Look: Did you talk to the Draculoids, or hear them talking to one another or to anyone else? Did you hear any mention of Fun Ghoul, or the names Thomas McQueue or Jenny McQueue? Did you get any indication who the flaming man might have been?" Harriet just looked at the other woman with eyebrows, her Angel dangling from her lips. Ellen sighed. "I heard a bit about what happened from other people," she said. Aha. The woman knew more than she'd let on. "Okay, yeah," Harriet said. "One of the Draculoids acted like he was talking to Fun Ghoul."

Ellen's pen immediately jumped to readiness millimeters above her paper, and her spine stiffened. "In what context?"

Isabel's fingertips were in her mouth in anticipation, her eyes wide. "God, Isabel, calm down," Harriet said. Isabel nodded, but her expression didn't change.

As succinctly as she could, Harriet told Ellen what she had heard and seen. The woman wrote in a strange shorthand, seeming to keep up with Harriet's speech, her face showing concern, then fear, then triumph along with the movement of Harriet's tale.


	4. Part I: Chapter 4

April 21, 2025-Somewhere in northern Utah

Dr. Death Defying was coming in over an unusual AM wavelength today, but Jackson made it his business to find him whenever he appeared on the airwaves.

"Got my hands on a new _Love Note _today. There's an important story in here, made more important by the presence of Yours Truly as a source of information. Thought I'd read it for all you kids out there not lucky enough to get a copy. So sit back for a moment and relax while I relay the indelible words of The Fool For Love. The dateline reads, 'April 14, 2025-fifteen miles southeast of Hunger City.'

'Fun Ghoul may be dead.

'A Draculoid raid at the end of last month inside Hunger City killed six former killjoys who had settled there to distill and sell wine on the black market.

'During the raid, witnesses saw a man shoot himself in the head after setting himself on fire.

'One witness said the Draculoids addressed the flaming man as Fun Ghoul and McQueue, names used by Killjoy Thomas McQueue of the Fabulous Killjoys for the last eight years. Fun Ghoul is or was best known for his mean rhythm guitar skills and his roll as a supreme bad ass in the Battle of Old Las Angelas in 2019, where he killed no fewer than 21 Draculoids and three Exterminators.

'The witness, a Hunger City resident but former killjoy, said Draculoids raided the distillery using grenades and machines guns, and seemed to have prior knowledge of its location.

'The witness followed the raiders into the distillery, which was located on Avenue X inside several conjoined walk-up apartments, and overheard portions of their conversation once they were inside.

'"They were searching the wine casks for someone," the witness said. "They seemed to know the person they were looking for, because the leader was addressing the room, saying, 'I'll kill you painlessly if you tell us what we want to know.'"

'She went on to say the lead raider used both the killjoy name Fun Ghoul and the city name McQueue.

'This is the eighteenth targeted raid into a former bubbled city by Draculoids or Exterminators this year, and the sixth into Hunger City, from what this reporter can gather from sources in the Western United States.

'Last year saw only four reported targeted raids. This suggests that the Draculoids have acquired intelligence sources in the undergrounds of many prominent former bubbled cities including Hunger City, Tightrope City, and Machinist City.

'Cyber Bomb, a wine smuggler since 2016 working primarily Route Guano, believes the infusion of information is short-lived, though.

'"I've seen bursts of activity like this before," he said. "Usually it just means they tortured the information out of one really great source. There's probably no conspiracy here. For me the question is, Who might have turned coat? For a jump like this, it's got to be somebody important to underground life."

'Meanwhile, there are still no confirmed occurrences of the Fabulous Killjoys concerts advertised across the routes and outposts since January.

'The Fabulous Killjoys have been elusive for nearly a year now-and are now wanted.

'Posters in coastal outposts and on some billboards give the Fabs faces and city names-Thomas McQueue for Fun Ghoul, Jay West for Party Poison, Billy Kavorski for Kobra Kid, and Ross Ranger for Jet Star.

'And they say, beneath the four faces, "Wanted All Dead or Some Alive: Reward $500,000 or 1,000,000 anti-radiation tablets per head. Price Negotiable."

'It is presumed BL/ind wants to find and ultimately kill all four Fabulous Killjoys, and expects that if some can be captured alive they might lead to the others.

'Dr. Death Defying, known for his roll in helping the Fabulous Killjoys record their music, had not heard from any of the four band members in over a year at the time of the scribbling of this article. But he did confirm for all of us unlucky enough not to have met the Fabs that the pictures on the "Wanted" posters do depict them.

'"I hope they're alright wherever they are," he said. "Party Poison, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. But I meant what I said. Also, you guys really should follow through on those concerts."

'Dr. Death Defying refused to explain his comment to Party Poison, saying this reporter could suck his dick if she was going to get all up into his personal business.'

"There you have it, rock-n-rollas. It's a tough time here in the West with the Fabulous Killjoys MIA, Fun Ghouls suspected dead, and the Draculoids getting smarter and meaner every day. There's another article in the _Note _tentatively confirming no less than three sightings of Draculoid-piloted helicopters. So listen up! Let's drop a Fabulous Killjoys track and flip the bird at the methane sunset tonight. Then, Iron Maiden."

Jenny's eyes were huge and her mouth a tight line when Jackson glanced up at her from the pot of canned refried beans he was stirring.

"You don't like Dr. Death Defying?" he asked.

She didn't move for a second before saying, "No." She shook her little curly head. "I like the weird words he uses and when he calls everybody rock-n-rollas. I bet he would be fun to meet."

"I don't know," Jackson said. "I bet he's 300 pounds, smokes cigars, and farts a lot. Better not to know."

Jenny giggled. "Come on, don't be mean," she said. "He does have a mustache, though. That's gross."

"A mustache, and lots of armpit hair," Jackson replied, playing along. "I bet he's got a hairy chest, too."

Jenny crinkled her nose. "And nose hair!" she said.

"Looooong nose hair."

A rumbling on Route Hyacinth, along which they were camped, signaled Roland's return. Since they'd gotten away from the Draculoids six days earlier, they had followed Route Hyacinth east to a known killjoy outpost area and searched for several days. They had hoped to find it flush, the killjoy term for an outpost well-stocked with food, water, liquor, and Angel, and therefore creating a sort of impromptu party among all the killjoys lucky enough to be there then. There was a good chance they'd find this one flush, Roland predicted, because they'd read in _The Love Note _about a major killjoy raid on a BL/ind warehouse in the area. It had been more than six months since the pair had found a flush outpost. They were low on Angel and Jackson desperately needed to exchange news with other killjoys and socialize with females who were not eight years old. Not to mention the awful fact that they'd been without explosives of any kind for more than three fucking months.

They had decided to keep going east from the known outpost area about two days before, though they were just about entering a high-radiation zone, but still hadn't found it. Outposts moved every couple months to keep ahead of the Draculoids, but stayed in the same general area so killjoys could find them. And lately, they'd been moving closer and closer into high-radiation zones to keep from the BL/ind eye. That's why Roland and Jackson had ventured this far east.

Today, Roland had decided to give Jenny a break from riding in the car as the searched, leaving her and Jackson at their campsite. She'd complained, but ultimately agreed.

"Did you find it?" Jackson asked as his friend parked and came to sit beside him.

"Nada y nada," he said, plopping onto the dirty and staring at his steel-tipped boots. As eager as Jackson was to find a flush outpost, Roland was ten times as urgent in his need to find one-because he hoped there would be tools there to repair his Grand Am. He had been sour for most of the last six days, and Jackson knew he wouldn't be set right until the car was fixed.

"Did you find anything on the road?" Jenny asked, bouncing up and across the campsite to sit beside Roland.

"Yeah, I found three bodies: Two Dracs, one killjoy. No one we know, Jackson. Got a coat, a pack of cigarettes, and four cans of ravioli off them. No weapons, for some reason." He lit an Angel. "Ya'll?"

"I found-a helmet!" Jackson said. He bounded to where his pack lay and put the gold motorcycle helmet on his head, then pulled the Flash Cannon from his belt and pointed it at the sky like an action star. "Found it looking for firewood. Jenny wanted to steal it from me. But it just looks so good on my!" He struck another pose. "Who gets the helmet, Roland?"

"I don't care," he sighed, stirring the beans Jackson had abandoned. "You know, we only have about a week left of anti-radiation tablets now that there's three of us. The outpost better be there. If we don't find it tomorrow I say we go back to Hunger City for supplies."

"We're only four days from the city!" Jenny said. "I like it out here. Could we stay?"

"We'll find it tomorrow," Jackson said. He took another swig from the whiskey flask in his boot, which he'd discovered tucked inside the melted pleather gloves of a long-dead Drac a few days before.

"Are you drunk watching Jenny?" Roland asked.

"Yes, but it's alright," Jackson replied. "She's drunk, too."

Jenny giggled. "No I'm not!" she said. "I'm eight!"

Jenny hadn't told the two men anything to explain her presence among the Draculoids that day Roland had come upon their campsite. When they asked her why she had been there, she said she couldn't sayu. When they asked her how they'd treatd her, she said, "Really good." What was clear, though, was she'd been raised a killjoy, but didn't have much hope of seeing her parents again. Jackson assumed they were dead. That could explain the eight-year-old's tendency toward sober maturity, a tendency Jackson was fighting as best he could. He wondered vaguely weather those Dracs had killed Jenny's parents, but let her live and taken her in out of kindness. It wasn't impossible. But they'd signed up for this eternal war, so their kindness was moot, Jackson thought.

"Jackson?" Roland's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"You look pensive."

"I'm fine."

"Jenny gets the helmet."

Jackson sat back down and threw the helmet at the girl, who caught it. "I know," he groaned. "You're lucky," he told Jenny. "You've still got about eight years of getting whatever you want because you've got those huge, blue little-girl's eyes."

"He just likes me better."

"I do like her better."

Jackson grinned, relieved a little by Roland's small joke. Roland had been so down about the car and, Jackson suspected, about the fact that as a killjoy he would probably never have the chance to raise a kid. Few killjoys tried to raise kids on the road. Jenny's parents must have been very-foolishly-confident in their ability to provide in the desert, Jackson thought.

Jenny's head was laying on Roland's thigh as he pulled the beans from the fire, the helmet pressed to her chest. Roland ran a hand absently through her hair.

"It's just your eyes," Jackson said, crossing to the pot and helping himself to the beans. The three of them ate out of their pot and pan because they'd left most of their things when they ran from the Dracs the day they got Jenny, but no one minded. All three were now gathered around the pot with their spoons, chewing the salty mush.

Jackson popped to his feet and opened his eyes wide, batting his eyelashes. "Do you like me better now, Roland?"

"Sit your ass down and eat."

"What the helmet, Roland? Cussing in front of the kid?"

Jenny giggled, making Jackson grin and sink back toward the pot.

Jackson and Roland had been traveling together three years, since 2022. Jackson's name was Flash Cannon, like his gun, and Roland's Billy The Kid, which was funny since he was one of the worst shots Jackson had ever met. They'd joined up after a battle that killed both their traveling companions. For Jackson, that had been Casey. Casey, or Star Maker, the one love os his life. Both men were in their early thirties, old enough to share memories of teenaged life in the pre-apocalypse world.

The next morning they collapsed camp-which meant tossing their few possessions into the trunk of the Grand Am-and cruised farther east.

Route Hyacinth went from the old California coast east across the country; faded old maps showed it passing through Ohio and Illinois, brushing the Great Lakes, and ending up in New York City. But as far as anyone was concerned nowadays, it ended around the eastern border of Nevada, since the Midwestern high-radiation zone-created when China heavily bombed America's breadbasket and most of Texas' cattle fields to gain a logistical upper hand-was too close for comfort once you were in Utah. The Midwestern high radiation zone was so large and so irradiated that the world basically ended before its borders as far as anyone in the West cared. Jackson had heard stories of life in the east, where there was supposedly no BL/ind, but didn't know whether to believe any of them.

Roland and Jackson had zoomed back and forth across Route Hyacinth in Nevada and California a million times, but never gone this far east. But now, they desperately needed an outpost, so further east they would venture since it was that or Hunger City. No killjoy liked having to slink into a former bubble to buy supplies from BL/ind's stories there, and they were getting close to having to do that. It bothered Roland especially, Jackson knew. He wishes his own convictions were as consistent. But he was worried about the Angel.

This far east, the roads were better quality because they hadn't been used, abused, and warred upon for the last fifteen years, since the world ended and government, with its road maintenance, social security, and police forces that didn't attack you, ceased to exist. But the countryside was empty and still, as if aware of the fact that a few hundred miles away the land was blasted to black and ash, and mourned it. By 11 a.m. Jackson was high as balls on Angel, as was his custom when Roland went through phases when no one else could drive the blue convertible.

"Look, who am I?" he asked Jenny, standing up in his seat and holding tight to an imaginary set of reigns. "On Dasher, on Dancer, on Doner, on Boner!"

"Sanna Clause!" Jenny said. Jackson had been educating her on the culture of the pre-Apocalyptic world in which she had never lived.

"Now?" He flexed his biceps, almost pitched backward, and grabbed the passenger seat with one hand to steady himself before flexing just one bicep. "I'll be bock."

"The Terminator!"

"Sit down, Jackson," Roland said. "You'll shoot your eye out."

"A Christmas Story!" Jenny yelled.

"Excellent!" Jackson collapsed into the seat.

Roland was fiddling with the radio, searching the static for Dr. Death. Then, he found him-staticy, but audible.

"… Dr. Death Defying! I'll be your surgeon, your proctor, your helicopter! Pumpin' out the slaughtermatic sounds to keep you live! A system failure for the masses, anti-matter for the master plan! Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny-this one's for all of you rock-n-rollas, all you crash queens and motor babies. Listen up! The future is bulletproof! The aftermath is secondary! It's time to do it now and do it loud-Killjoys, make some noise!"

Jackson stood up again, was pulled back down by the seatbelt he'd forgotten he fastened, unfastened it, and stood up again, drawing Flash Cannon.

"Wooooooooooo!" he said. "Come on guys, you heard the man, make some noise!" She shot the laser into the air four times before it jammed.

The radio was playing a Fabulous Killjoys song from 2019: NaNaNa, as it was labeled on the few copies of a CD entitled, "Danger Parade: A Tale of Love Revenge," the only Fabulous Killjoys recording but a fairly complete compilation of their songs recorded up to 2021, as far as Jackson could tell. He'd taken a copy from a dying friend soon after it came out-with gasped permission. But he'd bartered it in desperation for a big bundle of Angel. Roland didn't believe that story. To get a copy of Danger Parade, of which it was clear there were only a few hundred circulating, if that, and to barter it away? Jackson hardly believed it himself. He had, of course, been drunk. But that was no excuse.

"Please, please, please, sit down."

"What's that?" Jackson asked, ignoring Roland.

"What's what?"

"Over there." Jackson was pointing at what appeared to be a small plume of smoke to the southeast, maybe a mile off the road.

"Looks like a campfire," Roland said.

"Yep," Jackson said. "Boom." He sat down with a thump as Roland turned off the road, onto the sparsely-treed sand around them, headed toward the fire. It was either the outpost or a killjoy, considering how close to a high-radiation zone they were. Dracs didn't patrol this far.

They were in a part of former Utah, the land around Route Hyacinth mostly sand and dirty with spiny survivors of trees clinging to the earth, gnarled and almost leafless. It took only a few minutes for them to come within sight of the camp, Jackson standing up again with Flash Cannon trained on the site just to be sure, his face composed to look as sober as possible. Roland approached more slowly as they neared it, and since Jackson could see no movement he retrieved the binoculars from the glove compartment.

It was a strange sight that greeted him. Not an outpost-no big canvas tents and groups of killjoys at folding card tables bartering food, Angel, and old army surplus goods. But it didn't seem like a campsite, killjoy or Drac, either. A hut made of wood slanted east in the light wind, standing beside a picnic table and a clothesline upon which hung the carcasses of deer and what Jackson thought might be possums, their meat appearing stringy and sinewy. There were shovels of varying sized on the ground around the cloth doorway of the hut, and a diverse array of medical supplies strew across the table: Bandages, peroxide, needle and threat, and-horrifyingly-a bloody machete. The campfire was nearly burned out.

Small springs of what were probably fake flowers had been nailed in rows beneath the hut's two burlap-curtained windows, their dirty petals fluttering in the breeze.

"It looks like someone's actually living in that little hut permanently," Jackson said, passing the binoculars to Roland. "It's no outpost, and if it's a campsite it's not killjoy. And look at that fucking table."

Roland already was. "What the fuck?" He lowered the binoculars and let the car roll to a stop, looking at Jackson.

"Let me see!" Jenny said, poking her head into the front seat.

"No," Roland said. "Sit down and strap in."

"And put your helmet on," Jackson said. She did. Jackson looked back at Roland. "You know what I think it is?"

"Yes," Roland replied. "It's not that."

"Why not?"

"Let's get out of here," Roland said.

"What iiiis it?" Jenny asked.

"The Irradiated. It's got to be," Jackson replied. "Let's get closer."

"We're going." Roland started the car again. Jackson picked the binoculars back up and leaned as far out of the car as he could, scrutinizing the strange scene.

"Get back in the car."

"Tisk, tisk. Give fewer orders, Roland."

"Are there really 'radiated people over there?" Jenny asked.

"No," Roland replied.

"Then how does Jackson know they live there?"

"He doesn't."

"I might soon," Jackson said. "Look." He passed the binoculars back to Roland, who grudgingly looked through them again.

He saw what Jackson had seen: A faded blue Chevy truck rumbling across the rocky sand toward the hut.

"That's not Dracs," Roland said.

"Nor any killjoy with self respect," Jackson said, pulling his flask from his boot. "That truck looks like they haven't modified a thing."

"God, Jackson, give me that," Roland said, roughly taking the whiskey after Jackson had only gotten two swigs down. Roland took three long pulls, capped it, and threw it back at Jackson.

"They'll have seen us by now," Jackson said, uncapping it again. "We might as well go try to talk to them. Maybe we can barter for some of that delicious looking road kill."

"Might as well."

Roland motored slowly toward the hut, Jackson surreptitiously pointing Flash Cannon at the truck.

The two blue vehicles pulled up to the site at the same time, on opposite sides. Roland didn't put the car in park, and the other vehicle also remained idling. Finally, the blue Chevy's passenger door opened, and a woman stepped out.

Jackson had heard stories of The Irradiated, but never seen any of them. He hadn't had occasion to go this close to a high-radiation zone before; killjoys kept supplied with anti-radiation tablets but of course those things lost some of their effect against high levels, and everyone had known a killjoy or two who went too close for too long and suffered the effects of poisoning. There was no coming back from that. You were permanently crippled or dead.

The Irradiated, some said, were a myth. They were supposed to be people who were warped by living permanently in or very near high-radiation zones-where they were, Jackson thought, safe from Dracs anyway-and managed not to die from their poisoning, for whatever reason.

The woman had no hair, and no teeth. One ye was infected and swollen large and shut. She stooped forward, her right arm swinging as she walked. Black spots covered the portions of her skin that were exposed.

Jackson glanced at Roland, whose face registered disbelieving horror, and grinned before holstering his gun, cracking his knuckles, and launching himself up and over the passenger door of the convertible.

"Hi there!" he said to the woman.

She had stopped about ten yards from the convertible and stood with her arms crossed. "What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was horse.

"Well, you see, ma'am, we've been traveling a long time without getting a chance to restock, and hoped you were interested in bartering. We've got plenty of gas, several tires, and assorted oddities. We also have a little girl, but we're keeping her. We're looking especially for food, Angel, whiskey, and … well, I mean, whatever you want to trade." He'd stopped himself from saying "anti-radiation tablets" at the last moment. He glanced back at Roland. It was the kind of mistake Roland wouldn't make. Jackson hoped his friend didn't guess it.

"You best not stay out this far long," the woman said. "It's not good for you."

"We just need supplies."

"We don't see many killjoys out this far. The last group stayed a few days, said they were wanted. They got the sickness."

Jackson's stomach twisted with horror. They would most certainly be hightailing it West when this conversation ended. He saw his own hair coming out as he tried it wash it, black spots appearing on the backs of his palms and sprouting course hairs.

He hoped his face didn't betray his thoughts.

"Do you want to barter?" he managed.

"We have some need," the woman said, nodding. She turned back to the truck. "Eric, turn off the truck and come here. They just want to trade."

Behind Jackson, Roland shut his own car off and came around it to the trunk.

They had, packed in there by Roland's expert hands, 45 cans of food, their pot and pan, a few spoons and forks, five blankets-two of which rotated as pillows among the three of them, though Jackson used them less than the others due to a tendency to pass out rather than go to sleep-parts of a tent that could be set up as a lean-too in the rain or bright sunlight, three umbrellas, a few odd articles of clothing, a pair of boots that fit none of them, a bottle of anti-radiation tablets with the signature BL/ind label peeled off, three huge jugs of water-purifying tablets-used to both kill bacteria and deactivate the trace radiation found in almost all water-Jackson's bazooka (rendered useless for a chronic lack of ammo), two big jugs of water, one of whiskey, nine of gas, three tires and a bunch of books. Jackson kept and devoured again and again any old book or newspaper he found.

The man, Eric, approached the gathering. He also had no hair, and just ridges and dark holes where his nose had been. Black spots covered him. His left arm was amputated at the elbow, bandages crusted crimson around it. That explained the machete, maybe, Jackson thought. His face was pale and he seemed winded by the acts of exiting the car and shuffling to stand by his companion, leaning on her stooped shoulder for support. She put a hand on his.

The two groups ended up trading gas for food-green beans, lentils, and chick peas, not the hanging meet-and a few articles of clothing including the unnecessary boots for a bundle of good Angel. Still no radiation tablets, nor any of the tools necessary for Roland to fix the Grand Am.

During the bartering, which Roland led, Jenny crept out of the car to stand quietly behind her protectors, managing not to oggle the strangers for the entire trading session.

When the bartering was done-after Jackson had asked several times if the two were sure they did not want to part with any of their whiskey or books-the woman fixed her eyes on Jackson. "You all should get going," she said.

Jackson nodded, glancing at Roland, who was looking at the woman. "What are your names?" Jackson asked.

"I'm Marry, and this is Eric."

"How long have you been-um-living out here?"

Roland was, to Jackson's surprise, silent.

"Four years," Mary said. "It's quieter out here."

"Were you-uh-are you … killjoys?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "We were in the army."

"The army! You were Draculoids?"

"And then we left. We knew they'd hunt us with a special interest if we went anyplace they might find us."

"Right on," Jackson whispered. "You should go."

Jackson nodded, his desire to know more overcome by respect of this woman's desire to be left alone. The three repacked the trunk and got into the car.

Before Roland pulled back onto Route Hyacinth, headed West, Jackson called back to the watching pair a common killjoy goodbye.

"May you be the one to loot my body!"

The three drove for a few more hours past scraggly trees, rocks that jutted up from the dirt, and the occasional looted or burned old gas station before they stopped for lunch. By that time, both Roland and Jackson were having a pretty great time and there were between six and ten fewer sticks of Angel in their new bundle. Jackson got louder and more entertaining when he was high; Roland smiled and liked to debate music, cars, and movies. His favorite had been Blade Runner.

"Ohhh, and Jonny Depp!" Roland was saying as a pot of chickpeas, rice, and tomato paste-Jackson's idea of impromptu Indian food-simmered. They both had saucers of whiskey now, too.

"Yes, Johnny," Jackson agreed. "Ok, Jenny, this one's important. He created absolutely timeless and completely distinct characters in like a dozen movies-"

"More like ten," Roland interjected.

"Ok, ten. He was a pirate in this series-"

"Which other two were you thinking of?"

"Cool it, Roland, we're educating the kid."

"Can I have some Angel?"

It was Jenny's voice. Both men stopped talking and looked at her. They knew she was raised a killjoy, but that the wasn't addicted like 99.9 percent of the desert's residents were. But having never stewarded a tiny killjoy before, they weren't sure of the situational etiquette. Jackson, in his fuzzy brain, suspected it couldn't hurt for her to have a puff or two, but Roland spoke before he could.

"What's that sound?" he asked.

Puzzled, Jackson and Jenny both cocked their heads to listen. A faint rumbling could definitely be heard in the distance, coming fro the east. They were much closer to the usual territory, now, which meant the teeltail rumble of motorcycle engines could easily be killjoys-or Draculoids. They'd found a campsite hidden behind a huge jutting pink rock, but Roland's bright blue classic car was poking out from behind it, gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

In these situations, it was standard operating procedure to run.

They quickly swept their gear into the backseat, sanded down the fire, and-Jackson holding their lunch in his left hand-piled into the vehicle.

They hadn't been on the road long when Jackson saw the source of the sound in their rear-view, and it wasn't good news. Drac masks, maybe thirty of them-he was kind of seeing double-came into view, dashing hopes for the leather jackets and huge sunglasses and visors of fellow killjoys.

"There's a ton of them," Roland said. "And I am fucking high."

"It'll be great," Jackson said, upholstering Flash Cannon and handing Jenny their lunch, nearly spilling the hot much on her in her in the process. "Phantasmagoric."

"That's not what that word means," Roland muttered.

"Orgasmic."

"Sure."

"Johnny-Depp-ic."

Jackson stood up and turned, firing just twice before his laser jammed.

"You should never have modified it," Roland said.

"I'll modify you." Jackson popped the chamber back into place. The ten-ish Draculoids seemed fine in the rear-view, gaining on them unusually fast. "Speed up," Jackson said, glancing at the speedometer and seeing they were only doing 90 miles per hour.

"Oh shit, you're right!"

Jackson shook his head. The man couldn't hold his Angel, he thought.

He slid into the backseat, keeping low, wondering vaguely among his disconnected thoughts why there were no bullets whizzing above them.

He popped up again, firing at the center of the shifting pack, hoping the targets he chose were real and not his Angel-addled eyes' illusions. His laser stayed true, firing all ten times he pulled the trigger.

"A few went down," Roland said, looking in the rear-view. "But they're close."

Jackson didn't have time to respond. With a bang, the world was suddenly spinning above the blue Grand Am, the clouds whirling in the azure sky. Then there was a crunch-and the air was violently ejected from Jackson's lungs.

After a few moments, two things happened. Jackson realized Roland had just lost control of the car, and they were now bent slightly around a spiny tree a few dozen yards from the road, Roalnd slumped over the steering wheel and not moving, Jenny shaking and pale but alert in the seat beside him, a small trickle of blood coming down from her hairline, chickpea mash covering her.

He also realized that the motorcycle sound was much closer now.

And then, the Draculoids were upon them.

There weren't quite as many as Jackson had thought, but still, there were plenty. The shiny black bikes swarmed across Jackson's vision as he lay there, surrounding the classic car. The sky blazed too bright above, and one of the Draculoids was blasting a Poison song-"Don't need nothing, but a good time!"

The masked figures slowed to a stop-"How can I resist? Ain't lookin' for nothing, but a good time!"

Jackson managed to move his head and spotted the Flash Cannon-in two pieces-on the floor of the car near Jenny before closing his eyes as one of the Dracs dismounted and came to stand at the side of the vehicle. He hoped he looked as limp as Roland did in the front seat.

"And I don't need better than this!" Brett Michaels wailed.

There was a scuffling, then Jenny's voice. "No, I have to see if they're ok!"

Jackson couldn't help it-his eyes flew open.

"That one's alive!" a gravely voice called. The nearest Drac was pulling Jenny from the car, her little arms braced against his coated chest in protest, her feet scrabbling on the chickpea-covered seat.

"Don't need nothing, but a good time!"

The head Drac, holding Jenny, looked across the seat at Jackson, who was trying to sit up shakily. He felt bruised all over, but could not detect the sharp, attention-shattering pain of broken bones anywhere in his body. In his current mental state he knew that didn't necessarily mean anything, though.

"You two take him," the Draculoid shouted, jutting his chin at two others Jackson couldn't see.

"No, I gotta check on Roland!" Jenny's voice was high and squeaky, mingling with the guitars and Brett Michael's voice.

"No," the Drac said, wrenching her from the vehicle and pitching her over his shoulder, her body stiff and his arms flailing.

"Jackson, is Roland ok? Check on Roland!"

But Jackson was being pulled from the car, too, now.

"Check that one's pulse," he heard the head Drac say.

A female Draculoid stepped forward and put two fingers to Roland's neck. Jackson was being pulled from behind, rough hands under his armpits, his legs gripping the front passenger seat, struggling.

"He's dead," the Drac said.

Jenny began to wail like a wounded child, high and uninhibited.

"Oh, Saturday night I like to make my girl, but now I'm tryin' to make ends meet."

"Eglesian, tranquilize these," the leader said.

A moment later there was a needle prick on the back of Jackson's neck, and the sounds of Poison faded.


End file.
